


amarantine (love is always love)

by andromeda3116



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromeda3116/pseuds/andromeda3116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zelena casts her spell, leaving Emma stranded in what appears to be the past, but she isn’t sure if it's some elaborate curse, or if it's real, actual Back-to-the-Future-I-have-to-get-my-parents-together <i>back in time</i> — and either way, she needs help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amarantine (love is always love)

**Author's Note:**

> based off of set pictures featuring Killian and Emma in new costumes, and extrapolation from what we've got so far on Zelena's plans. I'm about 300000% sure this isn't where they're going with it, but I wanted to do it, and I wanted to get it out before it gets irrevocably Jossed by "Kansas".

Even Emma could admit that it was kind of…  _really_  pathetic.

But she’d been dropped down into the past — she wasn’t even entirely sure  _when_  — completely  _alone_  and apparently she was the one who had to fix it because she was  _always_ the one who had to fix it but she had no idea what to do or where to start or where she was or how to survive like this and… and she couldn’t do this alone.

So she’d sort of started to imagine him walking beside her, making comments or suggestions, and always, always,  _always_  supporting her, always saying the  _opposite_  of whatever her fear and self-loathing were muttering in the back of her head ( _you can’t do this, you are so far out of your depth, what if you’re just a madwoman and there is no such place as Storybrooke?_ ).

Of course, if he had really been here, he probably could have come up with something better than  _you can do this, love_ , and his accent probably would have been more believable.

It had only been two weeks since she was in Storybrooke, but his voice was already slipping away.

All of their voices were already slipping away.

She knew better than to try and explain herself to anyone, but she’d been hunting for familiar faces anyway, thinking that maybe — maybe there would be some spark of recognition, like if she ran across her father, some tiny part of him would remember her. But she wasn’t even sure if that was possible, if they had somehow been sent back to their past selves and had memories that could be jogged, or if the clock had been  _truly_  turned back and the people she had known regressed over thirty years when Zelena won.

It might have been self-delusion, but she kept telling herself that it was just a curse, that time travel wasn’t possible — they all said that no one could change the past, and no, they hadn’t  _stopped_  Zelena, but they’d  _definitely_  messed things up, and maybe…

After all, Zelena had meant to go back and stop Cora from abandoning her, but the people Emma had spoken to recognized Regina as the evil queen of a neighboring country; as best she could tell, she’d gone back to a time soon before her parents had met.

So she’d been sort of looking for them but — if she was being honest with herself — she’d been looking much harder for  _him._  Because if it was a curse, Killian was here somewhere, and she could remind him who she was and he would  _actually_  be at her side to help her and support her… she wouldn’t have to try and prop herself up on a bad imitation of his voice.

If she really  _was_  back in time, he was still in Neverland, and completely out of her reach.

It  _had_  to be a curse.

She’d been making her way toward the castle — apparently owned by some King George, and hell if she knew who  _that_  was — because her parents were royalty and maybe this King George could help her find one or both of them.

It was the closest thing she could think of to a starting point, anyway, and although it had taken two weeks, she’d  _finally_  gotten to what she supposed was the city attached to the castle.

She really wished she hadn’t.

(The fairy tales never mentioned the  _smell_.)

Emma had no idea what she looked like beyond the blue (thin, increasingly-tattered) dress and inadequate cloak, although she’d tried to stay reasonably clean; it wasn’t like her first jaunt here, when Mary Margaret had been able to catch her by the chin and brush dirt off her cheeks and pick the occasional twig out of her hair with a smile and  _she could not follow this train of thought right now._

At first, when she passed through the gates and down the first dozen or so blocks, no one paid her much attention, but that started to change as she followed the path of least horrid stench, out of the poorer districts and into the apparently wealthier ones — the scathing, judging looks she got from a pair of fancy ladies (in unnecessarily complicated dresses) passing by almost made her falter, before she caught herself.

She may not have felt much like a savior, and she may have been  _completely_  out of her depth and confused and lonely and scared, but she was still  _Emma Swan_  — Emma who survived the foster system, Emma who survived prison, Emma who survived losing her child, Emma who tracked down men twice her size and brought them in.

That was something no curse or time travel or fake memories or weakness could take from her — they could take away the magic, take away Storybrooke, take away her parents, take away her son, take away her… Killian — but they  _couldn’t_  take away the person who had never had any of them to begin with.

She’d lived like this before; she knew what to do in this situation. The fact that she was in a bastardized fourteenth-century township didn’t change that.

She tilted her chin up and clenched her jaw, walking toward the castle with purpose, like she was supposed to be here.

 _That’s it, love,_  she thought.

This could never hold water. The moment someone questioned her —  _Swan, they’re not gonna question you if they think you know what you’re doing_.

(She bit her lip; that didn’t sound like him  _at all_.)

But just as she was trying to come up with something that he  _actually_  would have said — a distraction from the crushing loneliness, more than anything else — she spotted him, and jolted to a halt, painful hope screaming to life in her chest.

He was on the other side of the street, walking in her direction; he was dressed differently, in some elaborate brown coat, and he wasn’t looking at her, and he was kind of far away, but she was  _so_  sure it was him even if she wasn’t sure why she  _was_  sure.

"Killian!" she called out, trying to cross the busy street as quickly and unassumingly as possible, and either she was wrong or he hadn’t heard, because he just kept walking, now passing her. She growled low in her throat, forced to stop as a carriage cantered by — driver didn’t even  _glance_  at her, asshole — and by the time she’d made it to the other side, she had lost him.

For a second, despair threatened to grip her —  _you were wrong, you were just seeing what you wanted to see, he’s in Neverland, he’s not here_ — before she steeled herself again and pushed her way through the crowd.

( _Jesus_ , there were a lot of damn pedestrians in this place. What was it, ‘walk around the block for fun’ day?)

She caught sight of him again, talking to someone — he was half-turned toward her, he smiled, it was him, it  _had_  to be him — and tried again.

_"Killian!"_

He paused and glanced back in her direction, looking confused; when she shouted his name again, he spotted her.

She’d been hoping for some flash of recognition, but he just looked around like he wasn’t sure she was actually calling for him — he had no idea who she was. But that was all right, that was — that was  _fixable,_  because she hadn’t had any idea who  _he_  was when he’d shown up at her door in New York. He was here. It would be okay, he was  _here._

She opened her mouth to call his name again, but someone — a fancy-looking man in richly-colored silk — stopped her, looking at her in suspicion.

"What are you doing here, making such a ruckus,  _peasant?”_   he accused, and for a moment, she could only blink rapidly as all the gears in her head tried to shift at once.

 _Confidence_ , she thought.  _Act like you’re supposed to be here and people will believe you are_.

"Get out of my way," she snapped, making to go around him, but he caught her by the arm, suspicion quickly turning into offense.

 _"What_  did you just say to me?”

 _Shit._  Wrong place, too much classism, not enough feminism… too late to turn back. She took a deep breath and met his eyes, praying that he wasn’t royalty, and that he didn’t have guards that would appear at a snap of his fingers.

"I  _said,_  get out of my way,” she replied, articulating sharply and as threateningly as she could when unarmed and alone.

"Who do you think you are?" he snarled, and before she could blink, he’d backhanded her across the face. She froze for a single second, shock quickly flashing into righteous fury.

_Don’t hit him back, don’t hit him back, don’t hit him back._

She hit him back.

Several people had now stopped to watch the scene, all gasping when her right hook landed true and hard on his cheek, and she scrambled to maintain the anger because the only alternative was panicking and running, and Emma did  _not_  panic and run.

(A tiny part of her was proud — his strike had stung, hers had almost knocked him off his feet.)

She stood her ground as the man turned to look up at her, absolute outrage rising to his features, and she called upon all of her nearly thirty years of pent-up frustration and injustice to save her now.

“ _Hit me again_ ,” she hissed.

"You  _insolent_  — ” he started, but then someone finally stepped in.

"Bested by a peasant girl, Tomas?" Killian said lightly, hand appearing on the small of her back. "How  _amusing.”_

"The little bitch — "

" — is a friend of mine," he cut in, sharp as a knife, startling Tomas and sending a rush of desperate relief through every nerve of her body. "So you’ll be leaving her alone now."

Without waiting for a response, Killian pulled her by the hand through the crowds until they reached a streetcorner several blocks from the scene, where he abruptly released her and turned, expression hard.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the relief crumbled.

"You…  _don’t_  remember me,” she said unnecessarily, and he searched her face; maybe it was wishful thinking, but she thought it looked like he might be seeing something familiar there.

She couldn’t tell if she was reading between the lines or if she was just so starved for hope that she’d latch onto anything.

"Perhaps you’ve got the wrong Killian," he replied, smirking a little and there was  _no way_  this was the wrong Killian. “I doubt I’d forget a woman audacious enough to strike a  _duke_  with a closed fist.”

A duke?

A  _duke?_

_Shit._

"He hit me first," she said blankly, and the smirk expanded into a full-blown smile as he held up his hands — prosthetic on the left, just where it should be — in supplication.

"I never said you were unjustified," he shrugged, and even though he didn’t remember her and she had just punched a goddamn  _duke_  in the face and she had no idea how to get his memories back and even less of an idea how to undo whatever Zelena had done… the tight coil in the back of her neck eased just a little when he looked at her with that slightly-awed smile. “Still, I would take greater care in the future,” he warned. “Tomas may be an insufferable braggart who hardly knows what side of the sword to hold, but he has an  _impressive_  crew of personal guards he won’t hesitate to hide behind.”

He started to leave, and her heart seized up in her chest.

 _"Wait!"_  she cried, wincing at the volume; he turned back to her, eyebrow raised, and words failed her. She had never really come up with anything to say to him, too busy trying to prepare herself for the worst to really think of what to do if she  _did_  find him. And anyway, where was she even supposed to start? “I know you don’t remember me, but… I  _know_  you,” she said haltingly. “It’s… complicated, but…” She tried to come up with something,  _anything,_ but finally all she could think of was, “Please.”

This time it  _wasn’t_  wishful thinking — he was definitely trying to recall where he’d seen her before; she remembered that feeling, like she’d gotten half a bar of a song she hadn’t heard in decades stuck in the back of her mind, and couldn’t even remember it clearly enough to catch the tune.

"Look, I know what you’re thinking," she said, searching his face and banking on her ability to read him, trying to remember what he’d said to her in New York. But so much had happened since then that she couldn’t recall it, and anyway, whatever it had been, it hadn’t worked very well. "You feel like you’ve seen me before. You don’t know where or when or why, you can’t place it, but some part of you recognizes me."

_Please recognize me._

He watched her for a moment longer before glancing up and away, licking his lips in thought until he seemed to come to a decision.

"I’ve a few moments still before the appointment," he muttered to himself, and then looked back at her. "Come with me."

She bit back a sigh of relief and followed him; when people started to look at them curiously — whatever life this curse had given him (back?), he definitely wasn’t a peasant or a pirate here — he placed his hand on the small of her back again, leading her along like she was supposed to be at his side.

It was several blocks later, in an even wealthier district closer to the castle, when he finally produced a key from his pocket and led her into a house.

A  _hell_  of a house.

He shrugged off his coat — for the very first time, he was wearing something  _other_  than black leather, and looked terribly aristocratic (and terribly  _attractive_ ) doing so — and raised an eyebrow as she looked around with an expression that apparently wasn’t as neutral as she’d thought.

"You claim to know me," he said slowly, walking around behind her and taking the cloak from her shoulders, fingers brushing against her collarbone in a way that sent a shiver down her spine, "and yet you’re surprised by my living quarters."

"It’s a long story," she breathed, and he just  _hmm_ -ed in response, hanging her cloak in the same closet he’d put his coat before walking away like he was so sure she’d follow him that he didn’t have to ask.

And, well… he  _didn’t._

He led the way into a beautiful sitting room where a servant was just getting a fire lit — a servant, he had  _servants,_  of  _course_  he had servants, and dear god, was that  _Smee?_  — and gestured to one of the chairs, indicating that she sit while he busied himself with a decanter of clear liquid that was almost certainly rum.

(Or at least, she hoped it was. She was so starved for familiarity that it was a physical  _ache_  in her chest.)

"Drink?" he offered, and she smirked.

"Let me guess, rum?" she replied, as confidently as possible, and the glance he shot back at her said she’d landed the mark, thank  _god._

"Perceptive, aren’t you?" he murmured. "Not a common choice among this crowd, I admit," he went on, voice absolutely neutral, "but I confess, I’ve a weakness for the spirit."

"I know," she said, and resisted the urge to smile.

He didn’t reply, instead pouring her a glass and handing it to her on his way over to the seat opposite her, which he sat in like it was a goddamn throne and he was king of all he surveyed: one ankle propped up on the other knee, slouching, holding his glass by the rim and casually swirling it, eyes locked on hers.

(It was extremely,  _distractingly_  sexy, but she determined not to pay attention to that.)

Smee bowed his way out of the room without speaking or even being acknowledged, although Killian waited for the door to close behind him before he spoke.

"How is it that you know me, love?" he asked, and her heart wrenched at the endearment; it was so out-of-place in this room and this costume, a tiny detail like the rum that boosted her confidence.

This was Killian, no question, this was definitely  _her_  Killian.

But Emma didn’t have a memory potion — how the  _hell_  was she supposed to remind him?

She winced and took a long drink from her glass before running her hand over her face. “You won’t believe me,” she muttered; he raised an eyebrow.

"Try me."

She took a deep breath and another drink, then carefully sat her glass down on the (exquisitely-crafted, how freaking rich  _was_  he in this new history?) table between them. “There was…” she started, looking around as though the words would rise up from the rug and save her, “a curse. I  _think_  it was a curse.”

"The point of which was…?" he asked, and she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth (his eyes flicked down to her mouth) and bit it nervously.

"Time travel," she said finally. His expression didn’t change, and she went on hastily, "I don’t think it worked right, I don’t think we  _really_  went back in time, but… I don’t know what actually happened. I need to find my parents.”

He watched her for a long moment before raising both eyebrows and taking a drink from his own glass. “Well, you’re right,” he said, and she cringed at his tone, “I  _don’t_  believe you.”

"I know, it sounds crazy," she sighed. "But — "

"Why come to me?" he interrupted, watching her carefully. "You say you need to find your parents, and, simply judging from your appearance, I doubt I’m one of them."

She recoiled in horror.  _"No!_  No, you’re my — ” But she floundered, unable (or, more accurately, unwilling) to put into words what he was to her, and he tilted his head.

"I’m your what?"

"Friend," she finished lamely, and he laughed.

"You’re not much of a liar, darling. Whoever you think I am," he murmured, watching her over the rim of his glass as he took another drink, "it isn’t a  _friend.”_

"I thought you didn’t believe me," she countered, wincing at the open desperation in her tone.

"I don’t," he said, shrugging. "Your story lacks internal consistency."

She sighed again, worrying her lip and trying hard not let despair take over; the room suddenly seemed so  _drafty._  “I need — ” she started, but caught herself before she said anything she wouldn’t be able to take back. “If it’s not a curse, if we really went back in time, you wouldn’t be here,” she said firmly. “You weren’t… here now.”

"Oh?" he challenged with a vaguely condescending smirk. "Then tell me, my dear, where  _was_ I?”

"Neverland."

He froze, all humor leaving his face, and sat heavily back in the chair, no longer slouching, no longer arrogant. “How do you know about Neverland?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice. She leaned forward.

"I know  _you,”_  she said firmly. “You took me there.”

He shook his head. “I swore I’d never go back to that place many years ago.”

"I know," she replied, heart pounding in her ears as the wind picked up a little more. "But I needed you to."

His glass hit the table with a sharp  _clink_  as he stood; she was reminded of herself at the restaurant, threatening him if he didn’t leave her alone. “This conversation is over.”

"How did you lose your hand?" she challenged, desperate to keep him from leaving or, more likely, kicking her out. He turned, blinking at her in false fascination.

"I thought you knew me," he snarled, and she stood up, anger rising at his tone; the glasses rattled harshly on the table.

"I  _do,”_  she snapped, sparks in her fingers as her emotions started to take hold and her control over her magic — never exactly reliable on the best of days — began to slip. She clenched her jaw in a somewhat-successful attempt to curb it. “I know the truth. But I’ve been on that side of this,” she explained, and he shook his head in irritated confusion. “Tell me, exactly: how did you lose your hand?”

She was taking a  _huge_  leap of faith here, but she’d thought about it (at length, during those first few days back in Storybrooke), about the gaping, undeniable holes in her false memories — if someone had asked her how she’d gotten Henry back after prison, she wouldn’t have had an answer. She was hoping it was the same for him with his hand.

Otherwise, she was screwed.

"In battle," he replied. "Now if you — "

"Which battle?" she countered loudly. "What war, what year? Tell me  _exactly_  what happened.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but finally seemed to notice the way everything was shaking. “You’re a  _witch,”_  he said accusingly, stepping back.

She screwed her eyes shut and ran her hand through her hair, wondering if this all would have happened if she had just kissed him back then —  _no, it wouldn’t have_. If she’d lost her magic in Storybrooke, there wouldn’t have been anything keeping her from disappearing; she hadn’t been born yet, she wasn’t supposed to be here. That had been the whole  _point_  — Emma was the Savior, she could undo Zelena’s curse, but if she had no magic, she would have stopped existing when the clock turned back.

But now the magic that had saved her was about to ruin everything.

And she couldn’t get it under control, not with Killian standing there looking at her like he wanted her nowhere near him; not when she was so  _close_  and she’d been  _so_  alone; not when she was this desperate and scared; not when that desperation and fear were making her this angry.

The windows rattled, dangerously close to shattering, and she did the only thing she could think of to make it stop or make him remember: she grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him.

Emma felt the curse take in the half-second before he pushed her off him, and even if she hadn’t, the way everything came to a sudden standstill would have been proof enough. That was  _it_  — just like that, her magic was gone — she told herself it was a good thing, because it meant that he really  _was_  the exact same Killian she knew, down to the curse on his lips — but it was  _gone._

And he hadn’t exactly had all of his memories rush back.

"What the  _bloody hell_  are you doing?” he snarled, and she tried to come up with a way to explain this to him, but there truly wasn’t anything she could think of to say.

But luckily — for a given definition of luck — she was spared by the arrival of Smee.

"Your appointment, sir," he said quietly, looking between the two of them in a way that screamed  _I was eavesdropping until thirty seconds ago_. “Lady Zelena wishes to discuss funding for a campaign against Queen Regina.”

A creeping sensation rose up the back of her neck and she threw caution to the wind, grabbing Killian by the arm. “That’s her,” she hissed, “that’s the one who cursed — “

 _"You_  are not to — ” he started, but Zelena chose that moment to walk through the door and, for the very first time, she was glad to see her.

Zelena froze in her tracks, eyes wide and locked on Emma — she must have thought her curse had worked and there was no more Savior — and for a moment, no one moved. Finally, she turned to Killian. “What is  _she_  doing here?”

Her mistake was in the tone; it gave away the fact that they knew each other.

It wasn’t lost on Killian, and — for all his anger and revulsion — the hesitation on his face, the way he looked from her to Zelena and back, it all said he was  _doubting_  — the same kind of doubt that had led her back to the police station.

He tilted his head slightly, calculating. “She’s a guest,” he said neutrally, and Zelena laughed, harsh and false.

"Where did you find her, in a pigsty?"

"That’s no concern of yours," he snapped back, sounding vaguely offended.

"Well," Zelena replied pointedly, "we had an appointment."

Everything fell absolutely still, like everyone in the room could feel that this was a watershed moment — if he told Emma to leave, she’d never get another chance, but if he told Zelena to leave,  _maybe…_  He glanced at her, and she could see the decision forming, his jaw clenching and hardening and  _no_  —

"Take a leap of faith," she whispered, meeting his eyes in desperation.

A flicker of familiarity passed over his face, and, after another moment, he blinked.

"My lady, I’m afraid I must postpone our meeting until tomorrow," he said slowly, eyes lingering on her, and Emma could breathe again. "Mister Smee, if you would see the Lady Zelena out."

Zelena tilted her chin up, expression unreadable, and Emma tensed, prepared to fight, although she had no idea what she would do without her magic, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

"At the same time, Captain," she replied through clenched teeth, and allowed Smee to walk her to the door, which was almost more frightening than if she’d decided to attack.

It was going to be worse tomorrow: she knew Emma was here now, any advantage she might have had was gone, and Zelena would take this time to plan how to deal with her. She would come back tomorrow and it would be  _hell._

But that was tomorrow.

Killian watched the door for a long time before he spoke again.

"Why did you come looking for me?" he asked in a low voice, eyes never leaving the door.

"I told you," she replied. "If you were here — "

"That’s no answer," he snapped, finally turning back to her. "That’s a convenient fact, not a reason. Why did you come looking for me?"

There was nothing for it. “Because I need you,” she answered softly.

"For what?"

 _To undo this curse_ , she meant to say,  _to help me save the day_. But instead, what came out was, “Everything,” in a tiny voice.

He fell silent, searching her face with a sort of frustrated confusion — like the tune was on the tip of his tongue, but stubbornly formless. Finally, he stepped forward and asked, so quiet that she could hardly hear him, “How do I  _know_  you?”

The answer caught in her throat and came out a whisper:

"You  _loved_  me,” she breathed, tears pricking behind her eyes. “You found me, and brought me home.” When he didn’t reply, she forced herself to go on, even though the words caused her almost physical pain: “Killian, I can’t do this without you.”

God, she was weak.

_(No, it’s strength.)_

"Do  _what?”_  he asked softly, taking another step closer. She swallowed hard.

"Be the Savior," she replied. "Not this time, I can’t do it alone."

His fingers brushed her cheek lightly and wetness followed; she closed her eyes in embarrassment, feeling stupid and small and pathetic.

But then his hand moved around to the back of her head and he kissed her.

 _Something_  shifted, familiar in a way she didn’t want to examine, a rush of warmth that left her breathless, a spark flaring back to life under her skin, and he pulled away a fraction of an inch for a fraction of a moment before his fingers tightened in her hair and he kissed her again, harder, bringing his left arm around her waist to hold her closer to him as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

They were both gasping for breath when he pulled away, forehead resting briefly against hers.

"Emma," he murmured fervently, arms tight around her as he pressed his lips to her temple and down the side of her neck,  _"Emma."_

She closed her eyes tighter and buried her face in his neck as intense, overwhelming relief flooded through her, so powerful it wrenched a sob from her throat.

Emma wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that — long enough for her breathing to return to normal, but not long enough for her hands to stop shaking — before he fully pulled away, his thumb still caressing her cheek, and… God, she couldn’t look him in the eyes — he’d kissed her and  _remembered,_  he had kissed her and her magic had come back, he had  _kissed_ her and — and that meant —

"That worked better than the last time," he murmured, fondly amused, and she couldn’t help it — maybe it was just the relief, but she laughed and her forehead fell to rest on his collarbone as her arms slid around his chest and she clutched the back of his vest tightly.

After a moment, she finally stepped back away from him and ran a still-shaking hand through her hair, looking anywhere but at him.

"So, what — is this place?" she choked, toying with the back of the sofa.

"This is my family home, as a matter of fact," he replied, laughing once — good, she could count on him to know when to leave well enough alone — and the atmosphere lightened a little. "Gods, I can’t remember the last time I was here."

"What, was your dad a prince?"

He looked at her sideways, still smiling like he couldn’t physically stop himself from doing so, hand still on her shoulder like he couldn’t  _not_  touch her. “My mother was actually a princess, if you can believe it. Albeit one of the last in line for the throne, especially after she married my father,” he added, as though that detracted from it.

She smirked. “So, you’re actually…  _Prince_  Killian?” she snickered, and he rolled his eyes.

 _"No,"_  he replied shortly, brushing her hair back off her shoulder. “About seventy people would’ve had to die for  _me_  to take the throne, love. And if that was the case, having me for a king would have been the  _least_  of the realm’s disasters.”

Emma laughed a little, but the levity didn’t last; after a long moment, she sighed and, very quietly — “What are we going to do about Zelena?”

He took a step closer to her, fingers still toying with her hair, and her eyes fell closed at the light touch. “Save everyone,” he replied, and the  _words_  were useless but the  _tone_  — confident and so absolutely,  _unquestioningly_  sure of her — was the one she’d been trying to imitate for the past two weeks. “What else?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes and he smiled again, pulling her back into his arms like he’d be perfectly content to just stay like this. She let out a long, slow breath and sank into him, holding onto this moment and memorizing everything about it, his hand in her hair and heartbeat against her cheek, the warmth and the comfort and the  _not-being-alone_  of it all.

"All right," she murmured, finally mustering the strength to steady herself. "Let’s do this."


End file.
